Accidental Chaos
by tremendouslyhaunted
Summary: In which all of Harry Potter's magic is accidental, and he's just trying to get through seven years at Hogwarts without any casualties. Featuring the anxiety-ridden, balding Cornelius Fudge and the more than appropriately amused Dumbledore.
1. Prologue - Fudge's Lament

**Prologue**

Fudge's Lament

* * *

Cornelius Fudge can already feel that familiar ache at his temples.

He surreptitiously nibbles at the end of his quill, trying to usher away the oncoming wave of anxiety. One, two, no, three times he drops the quill to wipe his clammy hands on his robes. When he chances another look at the legal jargon and cramped letters on the document before him, he only repeats the process.

See, if it were only a few papers he wouldn't be having any trouble.

Unfortunately, there's a staggering pile planted at the right of his desk, threatening to tip the whole structure over.

The head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, in one of his infamous bouts of laziness (or immense wisdom, he couldn't tell which) had skipped a week of work to see the Fitchburg Finches play, leaving Cornelius at the helm. He had admittedly been proud (smug, his coworkers would argue) to have been trusted with such a responsibility.

That was before everything went straight to hell.

Before long, telephones were going off, Obliviators were being sent out by the dozens and paperwork was flying onto his once pristine workspace.

A particularly spirited report had knocked his mug of coffee off onto the pricey Persian rug. The mug which remains where it fell, a dark stain blooming around it as he tries (in vain) to read the second of the documents amid the chaos.

The cacophony of more paper, swooping in at an alarming speed, and shrill ringing causes a cold sweat to collect on his forehead. When would the horror end?

Obliviator Peasegood, finished his shift for the day, gives him a haughty smile before strolling towards the lifts.

The quill snaps in Cornelius' hand and splatters black ink all over him and the paper. He curses as he flicks his wand a few times to clean the mess. This is the worst that they've had since Pettigrew.

Hah! Pettigrew was child's play compared to this.

He vigorously dabs at the sheen of sweat on his head with the handkerchief from his pocket, trying to calm his racing heart.

Only to groan when the headache escalates from a light throbbing to a pounding agony.

After glancing at his coworkers, who are all preoccupied with barking orders into their phones, he reaches into the bottom drawer of his desk for a flask of relief.

An unmitigated disaster.

He takes a swig.

A whole school of muggle children turned into farm animals.

He starts screwing the cap back on.

Fresh out of Hogwarts Obliviators adding to the chaos by running around like chickens with their heads cut off.

He changes his mind and goes for another.

If the Prophet got a hold of this there would be weeks upon weeks of debasement for the Ministry. Worse, if they found out he was in charge during the whole debacle...he'd surely be ruined.

With his position dangling before his very eyes and the acrid burn of fire whiskey traveling down his throat, he grabs a quill and begins signing wherever he sees a space, skipping whatever looks unnecessary, and stamping wherever he thinks it's needed.

He's too hasty, too riled up by adrenaline and the discord around him so he pays no attention to any of the contents or what each flourish of the quill binds him to.

If Cornelius Fudge had ventured a closer look at a single paper, he would have noticed two things:

1) The name 'Harry Potter' repeated over and over again.

2) Words in red, underlined multiple times: **Magic extremely volatile, further precautions NEEDED**

Of course, he didn't-a choice he would regret for the many years to come where he would lose his patience, his hair, and eventually his sanity.

So began the tragedy of Cornelius Fudge.


	2. When All the World's a Match

**Chapter 1**

When All the World's a Match, But You Can't Light a Thing

* * *

It's looking to be to be another splendid year.

Albus Dumbledore finalizes the last of the papers and leans back in his armchair, satisfied.

His spectacles are steadily slipping down his crooked nose, and he can feel his heavy eyelids following them. A glance at the peculiar clock beside him reveals its hands flitting between 'work' and 'mortal peril'.

He supposes it's as good a time as any for a break.

With the book listings moved aside, he waves his wand at the kettle and levitates it towards the fire for some hot tea. Next to the fireplace (quite dangerous really, he should consider moving them) is a pile of unopened letters. They're all covered in the same, cramped handwriting; each one is considerably bulkier than the one before.

He'll get to them someday, he muses, but alas, today's not that day. He's just finished his work, after all.

Unfortunately, Cornelius Fudge disagrees.

Just as he's dimmed the flames and has gotten comfortable with the tea, his fireplace lets out a hacking cough–spewing ashes everywhere. None other than the newly minted Minister of Magic emerges from the bowels, caked head to toe in soot. He very conspicuously wipes the soles of his boots on the flooring, while letting out a congested 'good day.'

Dumbledore merely offers a placid smile and gestures to the seat across from him. He doesn't recall registering his fireplace to the Floo Network.

A grave oversight-he'll have to pay a visit to the Department of Magical Transportation, though he suspects it won't be of any use.

"Cornelius, what a surprise, do have a seat."

The Minister hobbles over and, realizing the mess he's trailed behind him, raps his cane once on the floor to do away with the grime caked on both himself and the carpet.

"Wouldn't harm you to get that thing cleaned every century or so."

The Headmaster only gives a soft hum in reply.

"Albus, I apologize for the abruptness of my visit," Dumbledore nods, an unfaltering smile plastered on his lips, "but I'm afraid I have dire matters to discuss with you. I'm sure you've received my letters–" Cornelius' eyes anxiously dart around the office and stop on the neglected pile before the fireplace, unopened and covered with a thick layer of dust.

There is a beat of silence before he continues.

"It's about the Potter boy."

"Would you care for some tea and biscuits?" Albus tries to delay the inevitable, "It's nearly dinner time after all."

A plate laden with biscuits promptly appears in front of them. He suspects the elves have rigged his office.

"Oh, I couldn't, I must be watching my weight," Cornelius says as he reaches for the buttery delight. A biscuit or two later, he remembers his business and steers back on topic, much to Albus' disappointment.

"The boy needs to live among his own kind, Albus."

Dumbledore looks mournfully at the last dregs of the tea.

"He's utterly incapable of controlling his magic around Muggles."

The cup disappears, only to be replaced by another, filled nearly to the brim. Albus takes a moment to marvel at the ingenuity of his staff.

"Not to mention they've completely uprooted the system, Accidental Magic under the categories of Catastrophic and onwards are now reported directly to the Minister," Cornelius' hands flutter around his cane.

"Surely, you can sympathize."

"Cornelius, he is a child. A child should not be without his family."

He takes a delicate sip and realizes it's not tea, but something more suitable for the occasion; "Accidental magic is an inevitable phenomenon among young witches and wizards."

His eyes twinkle merrily behind his spectacles; "I recall that even I, mischievous lad I was, gave poor Aberforth a beak, that one perplexed the Ministry for days."

Albus can see a flicker of exasperation over Cornelius' ruddy face.

"Albus, accidental magic on such a scale is unheard of! Just this week the boy transported his home all the way to Hawaii! Threw the entire American Ministry for a loop! Before that, he put a semi-permanent Clowning jinx on his uncle–the one which took a whole month for the Department to sort out–but what I'm saying is, he's a menace to our security! We can't have him living around Muggles!" The familiar handkerchief is out again, dabbing at his sizeable forehead. Dumbledore only offers him an amused smile.

"Cornelius, has the boy ever caused anyone grievous injury with his magic?"

The Minister struggles to recall all the incidents that have transpired, and it's miraculous that he even does. "I can't say he has, but he's caused the Ministry numerous inconveniences." When he says 'the Ministry', Dumbledore reasons, Cornelius means himself.

"I see no reason to take a boy from his family if he's only causing an 'inconvenience'," Cornelius is already sputtering, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to edge in his response.

"It _is_ unfortunate, but it is what's best."

His guest remains silent, but Albus can tell by the tension in his frame that he is still a long journey from being convinced. An uncharacteristically serious mood washes over the room as both men prepare for the following argument.

"It will be the best protection for young Harry, should Voldemort–"

At the mere name, Cornelius twitches violently and shoots wary looks at around the room. It's as if he believes Death Eaters will begin pouring out of the walls. Albus wisely decides not to disclose that the elves are the only ones listening. There's no point in riling Cornelius up any further.

"You Know Who is gone! He has been since that very night!" the Minister whispers breathlessly, his knuckles white as he grips the head of his cane.

"Yet you still fear his name," Albus simply states.

Cornelius refuses to acknowledge it any further. He is agitated, and at some point he has stood up and started pacing around the room, talking more to himself than the Headmaster. His free hand is gesturing wildly and the other is knocking the cane on the ground with every step. Fawkes is forced awake and stands alert at his perch, his beady eyes studying their colourful visitor.

"It's all talk, those blasted rumours about the Death Eaters acting up–the ridiculous things paranoid old witches have been seeing! Not to mention that the outlandish rubbish the Quibbler's been posting which only fuels the fear mongering! The Ministry has dismissed all of these cases numerous times! It's unreasonable to even think that he'd ever return–yes, unreasonable!" His face is a bright pink when he pauses to reclaim his breath. In the end, he hasn't managed to convince either of them.

They're reaching the predictable conclusion of the argument, and Albus' feels more exhausted than he had at the beginning of the visit.

"Surely you believe there's a slight possibility, no matter how small, that perhaps Voldemort, _as powerful of a being as he is_ , will find a way."

The bags under Cornelius' eyes speak more truths than the man ever will. His cane is swinging in his hand as he scrambles for a rebuttal. It stills when he doesn't find any.

He is seated once more.

"I have thought of it," he replies, reluctantly, as if the admittance pains him.

"But the _people_ Albus, they're happier than they've been in years. They don't need the insane ramblings of mad folk telling them that You Know Who has returned. There's simply no proof."

He heaves out a sigh, before glancing at the unreadable clock.

"My, is it that time already?"

Not long after he's taken a seat, he's already standing, adjusting his trench coat and dusting off any lingering crumbs.

"My heartfelt apologies for overstaying my welcome, Albus, I'll be on my way. The Missus must be waiting."

"Do give her an old Headmaster's greetings."

Cornelius tips his hat, and with that meaningless gesture, he is finally gone.

For now.

The whirring of Dumbledore's alchemy set and the occasional chirp from Fawkes are the only sounds that remain.

* * *

 _"Breakfast!"_

Harry jolts awake at his Aunt's uncanny imitation of a parrot.

He blinks a few times, the unfiltered morning light shining directly into his eyes. "Coming," he rasps.

It's not a proper start to a day without an attempt to harness his godlike abilities.

He stretches his hands out in front of him, as he's seen many mystics out on the streets do, and tries wrestling the power into fetching his clothes and making his bed. Perhaps also attempting to make it rain money so he can leave this place and live as frivolously as possible. His concentration is so intense that he may have burst a few blood vessels.

He slowly puts down his arms, feeling silly when he doesn't hear the sharp clatter of coins hitting the floor.

He mourns for the pound lost to the hag who instructed him on how to 'use his inner strength to awaken his spiritual core.'

His 'spiritual core' remains stubbornly unresponsive, like always. It was worth a shot (it always is), but he's beginning to feel like Dudley, poking at something with a stick to see if it'll move when it's obviously been run over by a car.

He can feel it under his skin lazing around like a torpid cat as he makes the bed himself and slips on Dudley's oversized clothes and belt with more notches poked into it. He peers into the small mirror, doing a double take when he notices what's changed.

"Bollocks."

His hair had grown again. It pokes at and irritates his eyes–despite Aunt Petunia's efforts yesterday to mow it down like a lawn. He rubs a stringy lock between two fingers. It's infinitely frustrating that the only thing his power is only good at creating minor inconveniences and making him look stupid.

He's halfway down the stairs when the shrieking resumes, an octave higher.

" _Breakfast_ , I said!"

"I'm coming," he says, in an attempt to placate her squawking.

Behind him, he hears the rustle of covers as Dudley makes a full revolution in his bed, and the booming footsteps of Uncle Vernon as he rampages around his room. He's rooting around for a tie that _isn't_ an atrocious, blinding color. Harry already knows he won't find any–the Clown Incident has successfully ruined every tie in his wardrobe. Though he finds it inspiring that Uncle Vernon still believes, even after all this time.

There's a package of unopened bacon and a carton of eggs waiting for him when he reaches the kitchen.

Aunt Petunia purses her lips at the sight of his hair.

"What freakish thing have you done to yourself now, boy?"

"I'm telling you, I can't control it."

Her mouth snaps shut, and her hand unconsciously travels to her neck. She's likely having flashbacks of day where it inexplicably grew about a meter long and thoroughly terrified the neighbours. He doesn't think he'll ever get to replicate it, or the joy he felt watching the strangely dressed men get bowled over by a _neck_ as they tried to shrink it back to size.

His aunt and uncle remember most of the incidents. He thinks it's brought them closer together as a family or bound them in some strange camaraderie.

"Don't laze about boy, Duddums needs his nutrients," Petunia snaps. "I want everything to be perfect on my baby's special day."

Maybe not.

'Duddums' chooses this moment to trudge into the room, his stomach bulging out from his comically tight pyjamas. It looks like he's had enough 'nutrients', Harry thinks dryly, slapping the bacon on the stove. "Bacon ready?" Dudley asks, sluggishly reaching for the pack of raw meat.

Harry doesn't bother stopping him.

"Not yet, dear, Harry's only getting started on it now," Petunia gives him another scowl, holding back her son's prying fingers. Harry leisurely adds another strip of bacon.

Uncle Vernon joins them. It looks like he was unable to find the tie, judging from the neon yellow abomination clashing horribly with his pink face. "How's the little tyke doing," he asks, giving his wife a slobbering kiss on the cheek and ruffling Dudley's hair.

"Hungry," she responds in a clipped tone. It would go faster if she helped, Harry thinks.

The bacon spits at him for his insolence, leaving stinging pinpricks on his bare arms. Meanwhile, Dudley is counting his presents, already at double digits. "Thirty six, and thirty seven-what? Thirty seven?" His face contorts, signalling the beginning of a tantrum. "That's two less from last year!"

Come on.

He pokes at the sizzling meat with the tongs, if he could take them to Hawaii he could surely magic himself a bearable family. He feels the power flare up–he's waited for this moment his whole life! He shuts his eyes, anticipating that the sounds of tearing wrapping paper will fade away into the sounds of moderately good people announcing they'll be his new family.

Nothing happens.

He can, however, hear a fire alarm going off next door.

Stupid thing.

He's done with the bacon, having accidentally burnt the edges. Dudley certainly doesn't notice; he's too busy funnelling it down his throat. At one point his Aunt must have left the room because she returns, visibly shaken.

"Mrs. Figg can't take him, she's had a nasty fall."

"Marge?" Vernon tries, with a note of desperation in his voice. Petunia scoffs, crossing her arms.

"Hasn't spoken to us since last autumn, I think she still has memories of _it._ "

His Uncle has started to sweat and tug at his collar.

"Any of your friends?"

"Don't be silly, I'd rather _have_ friends when this is over," Petunia responds. Now they're just being rude.

"I'll look after the house," Harry interjects. Their heads snap towards him, and they gawk as if he's said something completely out of the realm of their understanding-justifiably so.

"No," Uncle Vernon forces out, "I'd like the bloody house to stay where it is."

He's right; Harry would probably magic it to another country if he could.

It's almost as if his Aunt and Uncle have read his mind because they agree, with no small amount of reluctance, that he'll accompany them to the zoo.

* * *

Uncle Vernon stops him at the door and leans in far too close for comfort.

Harry flinches at his heady breath, which reeks of coffee and sour bacon. The bush above his lip quivers ferociously as he rattles off warnings in what Harry thinks is supposed to be a threatening manner. Unfortunately, that ridiculous neon tie makes it hard to take them seriously.

"No funny business or you're back in the cupboard. Freakish powers or not."

Harry eyes the pillar of fire bursting through their neighbour's roof, silently praying that the Dursleys won't notice.

"Of course."

* * *

It is only when he's surrounded by hysterical people dialling emergency services and wailing children that Harry concedes he may have made a mistake.

The snake, slithering out the door, hisses a thankful 'sayonara'. He probably won't make it, Harry thinks; the zookeepers are in frenzy.

Harry concedes he may have made more than _one_ mistake when the snake sprouts wings.

He watches resignedly as the strange men (who are beginning to look more and more haggard with each incident) come to handle the situation.

The ride back is as solemn as a funeral, with Dudley moping about his ruined birthday, and Vernon's hands strangling the steering wheel. Piers leaves early, clearly uncomfortable with the thick layer of tension that has settled over the household.

As promised, Harry is thrown in the cupboard. His magic, still useless, does nothing about it.

* * *

Elsewhere in an opulent office, Cornelius Fudge lets out an agonized groan when his coffee is knocked off his desk by another stack of papers.

His new rug, he thinks miserably, will have to wait.


	3. A Galleon for a Branch

**Chapter 2**

A Galleon for a Branch and Fifteen for an Owl

* * *

Eventually, the Dursley's mounting paranoia and laziness prompt them into letting him out of the cupboard, and back into the second bedroom.

By then the spider rebellion is afoot, led by an accidentally enlarged black widow (not that his aunt and uncle are any of the wiser).

Upon freedom from the cupboard, he's subjected to a routine of mind-numbing chores in an effort to keep his power in check.

When he somehow makes the broom sentient, at least to a point where it starts critiquing Dudley's diet and Aunt Petunia's interior design, he's forced to spend his days outside of Number 4 Privet Drive. This doesn't stop his magic from wreaking havoc wherever he goes, and strange reports of alien intervention and government conspiracies start flooding the papers almost immediately.

By mid-July, Uncle Vernon has taken to seeing a therapist, and Aunt Petunia has purchased more self-help books than there's room for on the shelf.

Harry flips through them when he's bored. Unfortunately, no one has written one on how to harness your godlike powers into doing something productive. At the very least, he's well versed in Feng Shui by the end.

Despite all this, it's the _letters_ that are the tipping point.

He's shuffling through the mail one morning when Uncle Vernon jogs outside, going about as fast as a walrus on land. Harry merely observes as the hulking figure steadily approaches and slaps the envelopes straight out of his hands, smack onto the driveway.

Harry only stares, unable to process what has just happened. There is no sound save for his Uncle's heaving gasps for air.

Then, in an uncharacteristically 'kind' gesture, Uncle Vernon grits his teeth and spits out; "No need to fetch the mail today, I'll see to it myself from now on."

Later, when Harry's weeding the lawn, he swears he sees his Uncle dousing said mail in gasoline and lighting it ablaze. He dutifully dismisses it as a figment of his imagination.

* * *

Overall, the day's been surprisingly normal.

There's another rustle as a letter slides past the cracks between the wooden boards blocking the chimney. Uncle Vernon scrambles for the paper, stuffing it into the depths of a black garbage bag.

Yes, normal.

He does, however, fear that his Uncle's therapy isn't doing much good. Currently, his face is the angriest shade of purple Harry's ever seen.

* * *

That night, he's trying to sneakily procure a glass of water when he sees light from the kitchen dusting the hallway. He stops at the foot of the stairs, his breath catching in his throat.

His Aunt and Uncle are huddled at the table, speaking in hushed, conspiratorial tones. The flickering shadows on their grim faces and the ominous atmosphere makes Harry feel like he's witnessing a séance. Between them, he can just about make out a dozen letters, torn open carelessly.

"I told you it'll start happening around this time! You should have listened!" Petunia's chin trembles, "They already know he's in _that_ bedroom, what else have they seen?" She fidgets nervously in her chair, eyes darting from the envelopes to the kitchen window.

His Uncle, a mad look in his eyes, responds excitedly.

"Absolutely nothing they've got any right to complain about. We've given him a roof over his head, food, clothes...We've taken him in despite his freakish powers–but don't you see, Petunia? This is our chance!"

She purses her lips, crossing her bony arms.

"No, I won't allow it! The things they teach at that–that _school,_ just imagine the sort of ideas they'll put in that boy's head!"

Vernon gives her a nasty smile.

"He won't do a blasted thing, he can't! Didn't that senile old coot say we're the only ones keeping him safe? This way, he won't be here 'til the summer holidays! Three months! We don't have to worry about a single thing for the rest of that time–their lot can take care of it. Might even do the boy some good if he learns how to control that nonsense."

His water all but forgotten, Harry trails up the stairs and back to bed, too sleepy to listen any further.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, there's the nagging thought that something has changed, although he does not yet know what.

* * *

The next morning, Harry wakes to a quiet room.

For a moment, he thinks he's gone deaf, as he can't hear the _dulcet_ tones of Petunia shrieking for breakfast. Slightly unnerved, he forgoes his morning routine entirely and races to the kitchen, still in his pajamas.

In his confusion, he nearly trips on the steps when he hears the hiss of food on the stove and off-key humming. Aunt Petunia is skittering around the kitchen, wearing an atrocious, frilly apron and a small, but jarring smile on her normally sallow face. Uncle Vernon is already at the table, reading the paper with the opened envelopes from yesterday splayed in front of him. He's vigorously devouring a bagel with a jolly countenance that Harry's never directly seen.

"Morning, boy."

He puts down the newspaper and beckons to the seat across from him. It is so uncomfortable and unusual that Harry can't do anything but sit down without a word, confused as to what this signifies. Maybe those therapy sessions and self-help books have finally triggered some kind of awareness. Maybe his wishes were finally granted.

No, it's more likely that he's woken up in an alternate reality.

Aunt Petunia plops a plate of shriveled eggs and bacon in front of him. Is it supposed to be for him?

Regardless, he picks up the fork and eats. Uncle Vernon watches him do so, the uncanny grin never faltering, even after Harry's cleared off the plate.

With that strange smile peeking out from under his mustache, his Uncle slides the letters toward him.

After a second of hesitation, Harry begins to read.

Things simultaneously make a lot more sense and get more confusing.

* * *

"Be here by six o'clock, boy."

With that, the Dursley's car putters away, leaving Harry coughing in the dust.

He's standing in front of the Leaky Cauldron with a list, a single pound in his pocket and no idea what he's supposed to do. The pound is a reluctant birthday present from the Dursleys, with a slight rip in the corner. He wonders how they expect him to pay for everything with this.

He looks among the shady patrons for his guide, a Rubeus Hagrid. A distinguished looking man with a turban first catches his eye. He's just starting to head into the bar when a towering figure, who smells faintly of wet dog, approaches him.

Maybe he's homeless.

Said figure gives him a crinkly-eyed smile.

"Harry, m'boy!"

The giant then gives him a crushing pat on the back (that nearly makes him double over) and introduces himself as Rubeus Hagrid, the groundskeeper of Hogwarts.

* * *

Harry's learned two things on this trip so far.

One, goblins are ugly both far away and close up.

Two, they are even more ugly when they are furious.

It's hardly Harry's fault that a simple thought can incite such disorder. _You'd be mad to try to rob it,_ Hagrid had said and the most _inane_ question of _what would happen if someone did try_ had popped into Harry's head.

Just when they were almost in the clear, the closest vault door swung open. Then the rest did the same. Weren't there supposed to be precautions against this?

The rest of their journey to the lobby was a blur of near death experiences; dragons, the cart veering off track and frenzied goblins chanting death to all wizards. Somehow, they got to the lobby intact and were promptly sequestered in Griphook's office until the Ministry could come and quell the situation.

"This ain't good," Hagrid, a faint green, murmurs. "We'll be lucky if this doesn't lead to another uprising." He has an iron grip on his pink umbrella and has positioned himself in front of the door.

It's a few hours of mind-numbing waiting before someone finally pops in and tells them they can go. The opening vaults, Harry hears from two whispering witches outside, were attributed to faulty door runes.

"Funny things wizards overlook sometimes," Hagrid grunts.

Harry nods, but he knows better.

* * *

As soon as Harry grips the wand, the whole shelf of boxes before him is hit by an invisible blast.

He watches, in horror, as dozens upon dozens of wands spill out onto the floor. Ollivander is unfazed, a glint of something maniacal in his silver eyes.

He scribbles something furiously on a pad of paper, then hobbles away to the recesses of the shop with a strange bounce in his step. "Nothing to concern yourself with 'arry," pipes Hagrid, settling into a wooden chair with a grunt, "'happens all the time, just ain't the right wand. Lucky that Ollivander likes a challenge."

By the fifteenth wand, which turns Ollivander's hair a fetching purple, Harry is no longer surprised.

"Difficult," the old man murmurs, stroking his new, luxurious goatee, "Very difficult indeed."

By the thirtieth wand, Ollivander is still not showing any signs of defeat despite the havoc wreaked on both the shop, and himself. Hagrid has begun dozing off in his sunlit corner, letting out audible snores, and Harry's legs are beginning to feel like jelly. They proceed to try three more wands before something akin to realization strikes the wandmaker.

"Very unusual, but yes...yes it could work–to think I was unable to see it before!"

He's off to the back room. Harry hears clinking, clattering, and a sharp snip before the door slams open, jolting Hagrid awake.

Ollivander's holding a tree branch.

There's no other way to describe it. It's a branch with the leaves still attached. It looks as if it's been taken fresh from the tree. Maybe, Harry reasons, it's part of the design? Either way, it looks incredibly cumbersome.

He presses it into Harry's hand, and it wheezes out a single golden spark with great difficulty.

Apparently, it's deemed a success.

Ollivander flourishes his wand, says some funny sounding words, and finally hands it back to Harry. "Eleven inches, holly. I admit, not my best work. Will only cost you a galleon."

So, Harry's expected to _pay_ for the glorified tree branch.

He reasons that he could simply pick up any old branch from the streets for free, it shouldn't make much of a difference.

It's almost as if Ollivander's read his mind because he suddenly gives him a stern look.

"I'm afraid wands won't do you much good Mr. Potter, the best I can give you is something that neutralizes rather than conducts and amplifies your volatile magic."

Translation: 'none of the magic sticks worked since your power's incapable of settling down for even a second, so I just gave you a branch'.

"As I always say, the wand chooses the wizard, but unfortunately, no proper wand is likely to be compatible with the nature of…"

He prattles on and on, speaking more to himself than his customers. There's an aura of true madness surrounding him, and Harry fears the consequences of not paying for the holly branch. He reluctantly places a single galleon on the counter, and Hagrid nudges him towards the exit. They leave, with Ollivander still rattling off about the art of wand making.

* * *

It's been an absolutely awful day.

Harry absentmindedly plucks a few leaves off his one galleon twig in an effort to make it look somewhat presentable.

The luster of the wizarding world had dulled considerably after he was detained in a bank for hours, given a branch for a wand and kicked out of half the shops in Diagon Alley. He doesn't even have all the items on the shopping list, and he's already tired.

Harry looks down at one of the last items left.

A pet.

Behave, he demands. For once, his magic seems to listen, settling under his skin like an admonished child as he and Hagrid open the door to Eeylops Owl Emporium.

It's not long before it acts up again.

He's wandering down the aisles when a spark, as tingly as static electricity, shoots out towards an unsuspecting owl.

Harry bites his lip in dread.

The barn owl blinks once, twice, and nothing. Harry sighs in relief. It cocks its head, peering at him with curious, beady eyes.

"Who?"

Harry laughs shakily, so nothing happened after all. It's the first miracle of the day.

"Who?"

Harry gives the bird's feathers a hearty ruffle. Maybe he'll buy this one.

"Who? Who are you? Who am I? What is the meaning of existence if it's nothing but imprisonment and pain? Who?"

Harry stops mid ruffle, and swiftly withdraws his hand from the cage, turning to exit.

He should've known not to hope for the best.

He makes his way towards Hagrid, deciding to leave before he causes any more calamities. However, the sensation of eyes following him makes him freeze in his tracks. A snowy owl a few cages over is boring holes into his skull. Somehow, he can feel the immense disapproval emanating from it. The bird can't talk, but he has no doubt that somehow, it'll inform the owner of what he did.

"This will be our little secret, alright?" he whispers, in a desperate bid to keep her silent.

He's had enough trouble for one day.

The owl blinks once, decidedly unimpressed with him.

Harry decides drastic measures are needed. He makes his way over to the counter.

"How much for the snowy owl, sir?"

"That'll be 15 galleons, lad."

Just as Harry's reaching into his depleted coin purse, Hagrid places a hand over his arm.

"Put that away, I still haven't gotten you yer birthday present."

"You don't have to," Harry insists.

"I know," Hagrid digs through his pockets, "but it's been a rotten birthday so far, ain' it? Wouldn't do you _or_ me good if I let it end like this."

He passes the owner fifteen rusted galleons crusted in bits of kibble. Before Harry can protest any further, he's struggling to hold a giant cage with an irritable owl inside. When they're out of the shop, Hagrid places a huge hand on Harry's shoulder and gives him that crinkly-eyed smile.

"Happy birthday, 'arry."

Harry doesn't know what to say, but eventually settles for a soft 'Thank you, Hagrid.'

In the end, it's the best birthday he's ever had, goblin uprising and all.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you all for your support and lovely reviews :D I'm really happy that people seem to be enjoying the story!**


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